


lord knows i'll fail you

by usoverlooked



Series: sit down and spill your heart [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Clarke-centric, F/M, Minor Monty Green/Nathan Miller, Minor Octavia Blake/Raven Reyes, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5398028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usoverlooked/pseuds/usoverlooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years later, Clarke comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lord knows i'll fail you

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to another of my fics but don't worry if you haven't read it - the TLDR is that Octavia and Raven are together and adopted a baby. But, obviously, I wouldn't complain if you read my other fic too.

Clarke came home to find everything different. Things were good there, but different. Not that she expected much else, yet somehow it still gut her, just the littlest bit. Her mother informed her, looking worn thin, that most of her people had gone back to the drop ship. Clarke left. Showing up at the drop ship at least, felt more like coming home.

 

Bellamy has a beard. It shouldn’t – Clarke has never liked beards before. The few boys in her class at school who managed to grow them always looked awful with them, and even the Grounders she’s known who have one look aged by the beard. Bellamy should fall into either of those categories. He really should.

He nods to Clarke while Harper and a few others hug her in welcome. Then, he eats a slice of apple off his knife and Clarke turns to greet anyone else.

Raven finds her by dinnertime. Raven’s hair is long, braided down her back. She has a tattoo on her arm, a symbol for marriage that Clarke recognizes. Clarke feels odd about asking. The tattoo’s faded, old. Raven relaxes onto a bench next to Clarke. Talking to Raven is easier than expected. Something in the two of them repeats, like lines in a song, and they pick it up easily.

“We heard about you sometimes,” Raven says, sliding a piece of jerky to Clarke. She takes the tough bread in exchange for it, the whole thing unspoken. Clarke’s grateful for that, the normalcy of it.

“All bad things, I’m sure,” Clarke says. It comes out more strained than she means it to be. Clarke glances up from her plate to see if Raven caught it. Raven’s eyes flit over her, deciding.

“You really think that,” Raven proclaims, voice low. She shakes her head, the braid sliding off her shoulder to her back. “Not all bad. Some of it, yeah, but plenty of good.”

Clarke says nothing to that. Raven wouldn’t lie about it, but it settles like a lie in Clarke’s stomach either way. Raven laughs then.

“So, I’m a mom,” she says. When Clarke looks up, the other woman nods, happier than Clarke’s ever seen her. “Yeah, I know, it’s nuts.”

“That’s great. You’ll – I’m sure you’re a great mom.” Clarke can imagine it easily. Part of her feels guilty for not being there for the birth. Part of her is – scared, maybe. The last time she was here, death was so thick in the air it was practically choking them. That was nearly five years ago, but imagining a child is still difficult.

“Her name’s Aurora and she’s the best damn kid around here.” Raven quirks an eyebrow, the expression familiar. “Only kid, but still.”

The name clicks into place only after dinner finishes and Clarke’s wandering around their medical tent. It nearly floors her. She should be happy for them. Clarke tries very hard not to be selfish about this. Eventually, she decides that being selfish is all right so long as no one else knows about it.

 

Clarke sleeps on a cot in the medical tent. She wakes up to someone kicking her leg. The next part comes automatically – jerking awake, grabbing the knife under her pillow, pushing herself up and hoping to catch the underneath of someone’s chin. Instead, she just tips the cot over, lands clumsily on her feet. Looking up, Clarke finds Octavia. The other woman has a scar running the length of her chin and short hair, but more than that her expression has changed. All the warmth is gone.

“Here,” she shoves a handkerchief wrapped around some kind of granola mix at Clarke. Clarke takes it, stays quiet. Octavia steps back and leans on the desk. “So what.”

“What?” Clarke asks as she unfolds the handkerchief, picks out some granola. It is all she can do to keep from inhaling it all. Her ribcage has been a familiar friend since leaving; never having more than just enough to get by unless she was with Grounders. Even then, she never trusted the food fully. Looking up at Octavia, she questions for a second if this is to be trusted. Clarke quickly decides it is, that she trusts this Octavia same as the Octavia she knew.

“So are you staying or are you going back to being _wanheda_ when-“

“I’m not doing that,” Clarke says. Her voice comes out harsh, low like a growl. Octavia does not shy at it, though she does stop. The corners of her mouth waver a little, then she nods. Clarke swallows. “I’m staying.”

Octavia nods again. Then, she motions to the granola.

“That’s from Raven,” she says. The unspoken ‘and not me’ lingers in the room, even as Octavia marches back out of the tent.

 

One of the women from the Ark who came over, Kelly, lets Clarke move in with her. Kelly keeps glancing at her side of the room as Clarke sets up her few belongings. It is fairly clear that she is surprised that Clarke doesn’t have anyone else. Clarke is not surprised. She hasn’t been that stupid or hopeful for a long time. Kelly works as a farmhand, mentions that they always need more people. The harvest season is coming up soon, but Kelly says that if she starts now, she’ll have a better pick of where to work when everyone has to harvest. Clarke agrees to come.

The work is hard but mindless. Clarke falls into line with about twenty others. It feels nice, to be invisible amongst the crowd as they work. Clarke has spent four years – give or take a little – being the stranger to Grounder tribes, being the fucking _wanheda_ to others, being someone special for longer than that. Clarke works for two weeks without talking to anyone from before, aside from Harper. Harper works as a chef for the camp, along with Jasper. Jasper pointedly steps out of reach whenever Clarke comes near. It stings, but Clarke appreciates it. Clarke knows she deserves it.

Harper is sweet, always bubbling with news about what plants will grow, new recipes she wants to try. None of it cuts anywhere near something real and Clarke is glad to talk about it. There are a few from the fields that she befriends. Kelly is fine, though it quickly becomes obvious they have little in common. Clarke sleeps in fits, and prefers to keep the door latched shut. Kelly sleeps like a rock, likes to sing while she cleans. It works well enough but everything about it feels temporary.

 

Clarke finds herself eating alone more often than not in the evenings. The other field workers usually let time stretch out while they eat. Clarke prefers to eat her share, then leave the mess hall. At first, she tried eating with them, but it always felt rude to leave early. Now, she just takes a corner of a table towards the back. If things are slow, Harper sometimes comes by for a bit. Raven runs on a different schedule, but joins Clarke one evening when she’s clearly been puzzling over something – a radio, she huffily informs Clarke before tiredly changing subjects.

Then, one evening Monty sets his plate at the spot across from Clarke. Clarke blinks up at him as he stands. Then, hastily she stands as well.

“Uh,” he says, then he sits. “You can- I came over to sit with you. Don’t leave.”

Clarke sits. She takes a drink of her water, waits for whatever’s coming. Of all the people to be angry with her, Monty’s pretty high on the list. Instead, he flinches a few of the peanuts from her plate and grins when she looks up.

“Miller wants to move in.”

“With you?” Clarke asks, slowly, catching up. Monty nods, fingers fidgeting, moving his food around. Clarke does the same, pushes her food around with her fork for a second. “Is that bad?”

“Nah. Just big. It’s all Raven and Tavia’s fault,” Monty says.. He taps his fingers against the table, an uneven rhythm. Monty grins again. “Have you met Aurora yet?”

Clarke shakes her head. Monty’s smile grows.

“She’s great. You’re working in the field, so you’re gone most of the day, right? But next day off, you gotta meet her. She’s a cool kid,” Monty says. He points with his fork. “Octavia’s pissed at you but she still wants to show off her kid, so don’t worry about that.”

Clarke blinks.

“Aurora is Octavia’s?”

Monty makes a face. “You’ve been here a month.”

“I’ve been – I work all day.” The claim falls short. Monty’s smile fades before he nods.

“Right, well, yeah. Octavia and Raven adopted her. They found her in the woods.”

“That’s – good for them,” Clarke says. Monty nods, but he’s not as warm as he was a moment before. Clarke finishes her meal, fast as she can.

“Clarke,” Monty says, when Clarke’s figuring out how to extract herself. She looks at him and he smiles. This smile looks sad and Clarke’s almost lightened by it. Here, here is his anger. She’s been waiting for it. “It’s not – you’re not alone anymore.”

Clarke looks at him. He doesn’t get it, she realizes. Clarke’s always alone.

Still, that isn’t the right thing to say. So instead, she nods, reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. It’s a pretty good charade of someone who understands him, but Monty’s face reveals that he doesn’t believe her anymore than she believes him.

“Seriously. You weren’t alone in that control room either.” This comes without a smile. Clarke doesn’t need the reminder. She carries that day with her everywhere. Some days all she can do is carry it. When she sees Monty’s face, she is struck with the realization that this is true for him too. It was a part of him too, a shadow that weighed on him

“Thank you, Monty,” she says. Pushing her plate away, she folds her hands on the table. “Do you want to talk about that or Miller moving in?”

Monty considers, eyes dancing over her face. Then, he shakes his head.

“He’s a _morning person_ , Clarke. He whistles while he gets ready.” Monty says, tone dire. Clarke smiles at it.

Later, after waiting entirely too long at the back table, watching others come and go, Clarke stands to go. Monty stands as well, his meal long finished. The two walk out together, still debating whether marriage tattoos are too much or not. Monty walks her to her cabin and Clarke tugs him to her before she walks in, hugging him.

“Thank you.” She says into his shoulder. Monty rubs her hair.

“I mean it Clarke. You’re only alone here if you let yourself be.”

Clarke takes her lunch break in the mess hall the next day, finds a seat next to Raven. Octavia settles across from them, speaks to Raven and not to Clarke. Still, it’s not bad.

 

Somehow, almost two months pass before Clarke talks to Bellamy. It’s not – it’d be a lie to say it is entirely on purpose or entirely accidental. It’s a little of both. Clarke recognizes the inevitability of it, but also avoids it on some days. Some days, the world feels heavy and – the world used to be shared, it would seem too much to face that loss head-on.

But, slowly, Clarke is becoming part of the world here. Harper saves a bit of fruit if Clarke is late in the line. Monty eats dinner with her most days, Miller nearly as often. Octavia even occasionally speaks to her when the two share Raven during lunch. Raven introduced her to Aurora, a toothy-grinning little girl. That made Clarke curl up in her bed for nearly an hour. She thought of the mountain, of all the little girls that never grew up. She thought of being _wanheda_ , of playing along to it to keep these people safe. She is at once, both inconsolably sad and completely happy. There is a life here; Raven and Octavia are proof of that. It scares her.

Clarke’s just come from the baths, heading from her cabin to the mess hall when she literally runs into Bellamy. The two tumble, with him landing half atop her. He apologizes as he rolls off her, then he realizes who it is. Bellamy falls silent.

Clarke pushes herself into a sitting position. Briefly, she considers sitting on her hands. It seems that may be the only way to keep from reaching out to touch his beard.

“You’re an uncle,” she says after a long awkward moment. Bellamy blinks at her. He shakes his head, stands. Clarke pushes herself up. “What?”

Bellamy flaps a hand behind him, a dismissal. Clarke burns with anger at it. That’s new, she realizes. She hasn’t been angry with anyone beside herself for a long time.

The shock of it stops her from saying anything and Bellamy’s walked away by the time she thinks of it.

 

It becomes obvious that Bellamy is avoiding her as well. Clarke does not seek him out, but she does ask about him, hopefully subtly, to Monty and Harper. Both make terrible excuses for him, which she accepts with a smile that feels paper-thin. Clarke could ask Octavia or Raven, either of them would be honest. It’s precisely the reason she doesn’t ask them.

 

One night, Clarke remembers Unity Day. She hasn’t thought of it in years, at least not the actual holiday. When she thinks of it now, she always thinks of Bellamy and that cocksure smile, and him asking about a shooting star. She thinks of that cocksure smile and the beard, then in the morning, for once, she’s glad he’s avoiding her. She’s not sure she could look him in the eyes.

 

When harvest time comes, Clarke is glad she’s been working in the fields. If she hadn’t been, the whole thing would exhaust her. As it is, even with nearly three months under her belt, Clarke’s still worn out. The good thing is, she doesn’t think she’s any more tired than anyone else. Clarke drops onto a bench in the mess hall, leans against Monty. With everyone working the fields for the time being, the group eats together as well. Octavia’s mentioned that at the end of it all there’s a party. She’d smiled when she said it, looking the warmest Clarke’s seen her since returning.

Someone settles on Clarke’s other side and when she turns her head, she’s surprised to find Bellamy. He nods, as if he meant to sit there. Still, she caught his face before he could school it. Bellamy thought she was someone else. Harper, maybe, or Amanda, another blonde.

Still, Clarke’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth for too long. She sits upright, turns to him.

“What was I supposed to say?” She asks. Bellamy’s throat moves, his adam’s apple bouncing. Clarke watches it, swallows. “Should I have commented on the weather?”

Bellamy shakes his head, laughs once. It’s a sharp noise, cuts Clarke right to the bone.

“You should’ve just kept avoiding me,” he says. Clarke waits for him to leave. He doesn’t.

“Well, I’m staying here. It was inevitable.”

Bellamy fixes her with a look. It feels heavy. The rest of the room is still there, she knows logically. It is only logic that keeps her sure of this fact though.

“You really staying?” He asks, tone more flat than anything. She’s only sure it’s a question because he raises an eyebrow. Clarke nods. Bellamy looks at her a moment longer. “Alright.”

They lapse into silence again until someone passes food down. Their hands brush as she passes a plate along. Bellamy takes one of her hands into both of his hands. They’re terribly larger than hers and Clarke thinks maybe she stares at them for too long. Except, he’s examining her hand, so she decides it’s fine.

“Guess I can’t call you princess anymore,” he says, voice quiet as he runs his thumb over a callus. Clarke swallows.

“What else would you call me?” She asks. It’s a dare. She hopes he catches it as such, and when he looks up, meets her gaze, she knows he won’t disappoint it. The name is a pain, but it is also a reminder. As much as she hates it, she needs people to know it. The things she’s done can’t be excused.

“Clarke,” he says in answer. It’s not what he was supposed to say. It floors Clarke. He drops her hand and someone passes more food down. He reaches around her to take it.

Monty and a man across the table from them keep up a good conversation, with Miller and Monroe chiming in occasionally. Clarke’s glad that no one expects her to say much. She’s too aware of Bellamy, inches away from her and refusing to call her the thing that she is. If anyone has a right to label her that, it’s him. He was there for it. Yet he won’t.

The two of them are the last ones left after dinner when Monroe ducks out with a smile. Clarke turns to him and finds Bellamy already looking at her.

“You can say it.” She says. “If anyone can, it’s you. You were there for it.”

Bellamy stares for a moment longer and Clarke resolutely does not look away.

“Whatever you think you are, I’m it too,” he says finally. Then, he stands. “You didn’t pull that lever alone, Clarke. You don’t get to take that away from me.”

Clarke stands as well. As usual, she comes only to his shoulder. She tilts her chin up to look at him.

“ _Wanheda_ ,” she hisses the word out. He shakes his head.

“We’re not that.” He declares. It’s nearly enough to make Clarke believe it.

“We’re monsters,” Clarke says, reminding him. Again, he shakes his head.

“Clarke, we’re what we need to be. That’s what we’ve been for a long time. And right now, we don’t need to be anything awful.” Bellamy steps back then. He smiles, just a tiny thing. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it, slowly but surely.”

 

The camp has a dog. For a long time, the dog has not let Clarke get near it. Clarke figures it recognizes her as another wild, awful thing. The dog is also protective of Aurora, usually trailing after her clumsily-made stroller whenever someone pushes it. Aurora has a baby bouncer that she sits in while they all work, speaking in gibberish to whoever comes near her on breaks. The dog lies on the patch of grass before her, growls at anyone who comes too close that doesn’t have approval.

“You have to feed him,” Octavia calls to Clarke. The harvest is almost over, only a day or so left. Clarke’s on her break and the other woman has the baby balancing on her feet. Clarke blinks at her and Octavia rolls her eyes, annoyed. “The dog. He’s spoiled worse than any of us, won’t let you near it until you feed him.”

So that night, Clarke sneaks some jerky out. The dog turns up on the path just outside of the mess hall and Clarke drops into a squat, holds out the jerky. The dog sniffs at it twice before taking it. Then, he butts his head against Clarke. She falls onto her ass. The dog’s tongue lolls out of his mouth and Clarke reaches up to pet it, laughing. Someone laughs behind her and she turns to find Bellamy. He walks up and the dog nearly tramples Clarke in his excitement to reach Bellamy. Bellamy drops onto his knees next to Clarke, scratches the dog behind his ears.

“They named him Cerberus, thought I’d get rid of him otherwise,” Bellamy says. The dog’s ears perk up at his name.

“You wouldn’t have gotten rid of him,” Clarke says, sure of it. Bellamy nods. Clarke leans forward, rubs the dog’s head. “It’s weird. Kids, dogs, all of it.”

“People can live now.” Bellamy says, incredulous with it. Clarke can’t help but nod at it. He smiles, the sight of it lighting up the night sky for Clarke. “We did that.”

“You did. You made all this, Bellamy. You and Raven and Octavia-“

“Clarke,” Bellamy reprimands. Clarke stops. She leans back, settles her weight on her hands and looks at the stars.

“I feel like – do you remember learning about forest fires? Back in the old world, they’d have whole forests start on fire. Sometimes it was good, but it could go wrong and destroy the whole area, wreck everything. It was necessary for growth, but it was wild and bad and –“ Clarke stops, shuts her eyes. She breathes, for no other reason than to remind herself she can do so.

Bellamy’s hand finds hers, folds over it.

“You are a lot of things, Clarke. I can’t say you haven’t done bad shit, we both have. But you’re good. You are not a fire.”

“I feel like one,” Clarke admits. The words feel like they’ve jumped out of her, some deep part of herself she kept locked away. Bellamy opens his mouth to disagree, but Clarke stands and goes before he can. His face burns in her memory though, the crease between his eyebrows, like the very idea that she’s something so awful truly confused him.

 

Harvest ends the morning after that. It is only midmorning when they finish, and everyone cheers. The girl next to Clarke jumps up and down and Clarke grins at her. Everyone pours out from the fields. Clarke finds Raven in the crowd for a moment, then her friend’s wife grabs her arm. The two spin, smiles wide on their faces, and Raven jumps into Octavia’s arms. They kiss and Clarke looks away then. It feels intimate. Clarke doesn’t know much of the two of them, but something about the way they are around each other feels permanent. Like they’ve been together for long enough for the thing to cement itself into their being.

When she heads into the mess hall, Clarke finds Harper and a pitcher of beer. Harper passes her the booze, smiles at her. Looking over the room, she finds Monroe with a man’s arm around her shoulders, Monty and Miller in one corner with some others, Bellamy has Aurora in his arms, with Octavia and Raven next to him, Raven riding piggyback on Octavia’s back. The baby grins gummily at her mothers and Clarke’s heart tugs at the sight. Even Jasper is smiling, sitting cross-legged next to a brunette guy.

“There it is,” Harper says, jarring her from her thoughts. Clarke turns to her and Harper smiles. “The Clarke proud look. It’s been a while.”

Clarke smiles at that. It touches her, somewhere deep, to be recognized. Harper leans over, kisses her near her hairline, and then walks to Monroe’s side. That’s nice too, that she doesn’t expect Clarke to have an answer to any of it. Clarke drinks her beer, leans against the wall.

“I’m kind of surprised she’s the only baby,” Clarke says, reaching out to let Aurora clutch at her finger. The baby smacks Clarke’s hand with her other hand, earning a laugh from Raven.

“Everyone’s scared to have a kid without a real doctor around so most people left their implants in,” Raven says. “Plus, some of us went the less traditional route for partners.”

Octavia rolls her eyes. “I’m traditional.”

“You have a tattoo on your hip and you only stopped shaving part of your head last year.” Raven says, tone clearly used to this argument. Octavia looks a little proud, despite losing the argument. Clarke laughs.

“You didn’t have any kids out there in Grounder-ville, did you?” Bellamy asks. He asks it like a joke, but all four of them know each other too well for it to be one. Clarke shakes her head and Bellamy relaxes minutely. It makes her happier than it should.

“Lexa wouldn’t have liked that much,” Octavia says. Clarke prepares for a fight about it, but all three of her friends just laugh. She deflates and Octavia grins cheekily. “You have terrible taste in women.”

“So does Raven.” Clarke says, quick. Octavia gasps, while Raven and Bellamy both crumple with laughter. Aurora even laughs, despite not knowing why her family is, which sends even Octavia into laughter.

They fall into easy conversation about the harvest, the camp, all the easy things. Clarke’s not sure when Octavia decided to forgive her, but she’s grateful for it. After some time, Aurora gets fussy and Bellamy offers to put her to bed. Raven goes with him, citing her old knee hurting her. Octavia promises to follow soon, then turns to Clarke.

“Don’t break his heart this time.” Octavia nudges Clarke with her toe when she says this. Clarke stares at her, considers playing dumb.

“I’m not – it’s not like that.” She says. It’s not quite a truth. It was like that, or it could’ve been like that. But not now, she thinks. Octavia snorts. Clarke shakes her head. “No, I know that it was – we were important to each other. It’s been years, he’s not interested.”

“Are you?”

Clarke looks at her empty cup. The answer is simple. She is. There were days when she was out on her own when Bellamy was all she thought of. His face was the only face she held onto, the only person she let herself be selfish about. Never hopeful, but always – always holding onto that piece of everything here. Always thinking of the _maybe_ of it all, the only lost possibility she let herself have. Everyone else – even Raven, maybe especially Raven – had a thousand reasons to hate her. Bellamy had more, maybe, but he had also understood her, to some deep core level. Some small part of her had hoped for a few days after she first left, that he would catch up to her. That was before she stopped hoping entirely.

“You do,” Octavia sing songs this, sounding like the seventeen-year-old girl Clarke remembers. Clarke laughs, nods. There’s no use denying it. She looks up to find Octavia smirking. “But it’s been years.”

“It’s different for me.” Clarke says. Octavia looks at her for a long moment before shaking her head and standing to go. She touches Clarke’s shoulder as she passes, something almost sad in the gesture. Clarke nearly holds her tongue, but can’t quite manage it. “Octavia?”

Octavia turns to look at her.

“I’m sorry. I never said that for the forest, not really, or for sending Bellamy in to-“

“Clarke.” Octavia shakes her head. “You’re forgiven. You’re family. You just had to come home.”

Then, she leans down and kisses Clarke’s forehead.

“Also, if you could tell Raven I’ve been nice, it would really help, she thinks I was being an ass.” With another grin, Octavia heads out. Clarke smiles after her.

 

Winter creeps up on them, hanging frost in the morning air like a warning. Clarke can no longer feel her ribs, feels a little off-kilter without it. The dog likes to find her on the mornings she can’t sleep – which come more often as the weather chills – and accompany on her walks around the perimeter. There are guards still and Miller is one of them. Clarke stops for conversation sometimes, and slowly learns Miller’s dry sense of humor, the fact that his father came with them to the Drop Ship, that Miller used to have a crush on Wells in school. The last thing she can’t help but tease him about and she has to hug him for it too, for someone else to be there who still thinks of Wells. The dog likes Miller better than her, which Miller is entirely too proud of.

“Don’t tell Bellamy, but Cerberus likes me better than him too. The trick is, working a lot of long nights and being willing to play fetch during any of them,” Miller says one morning, throwing a stick for the dog. Clarke watches the dog run after it.

“Bellamy wouldn’t believe it anyways,” Clarke says. Miller laughs, nods.

“I’m surprised you haven’t run into him out here. He has trouble sleeping too,” Miller says. “Old habits, right?”

Clarke looks at him, puzzled.

“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown, and all?” Miller comments.

“Has Bellamy been forcing you guys to recite Shakespeare?” Clarke asks, avoiding the question.

“Screw you, Griffin, I’m cultured without his help.” Miller says, no heat behind the words. Clarke finds herself smiling. Miller takes the stick from the dog when it approaches them again, throws it long out to the barely lit sky. “Seriously. You guys dealt with more than any of us. Bellamy had all of us after it all.”

“Bellamy also had to answer for all of it.” Clarke corrects. Miller squints at her for a moment, then nods.

“Figured you were answering for it wherever you were too.” He says after a long moment. Clarke looks at him as he whistles for the dog again.

“You’re too smart, Nate.” She says. Miller winks at her, then walks to find the dog, who has decided to play keep-away with the stick. She watches him for a minute before she heads back to her cabin.

 

The first snowfall comes too quickly and it makes Clarke’s breath catch in her chest. Snow has meant nearly dying for a long time. It’s meant hoping that Luna or Lincoln’s clan is near. It’s meant being on edge every day. One night, she spent a week holed up in a fox den, praying the fox never returned. It never did, so Clarke stayed for a few weeks there. Snow means something entirely different here. Clarke takes two steps outside her cabin and someone shrieks. It’s a happy sound, and all the warning Clarke gets before a snowball smacks her square in the face.

Wiping her face, she finds Octavia grinning. She points to Aurora, the little girl giggling in her mother’s arms, clearly an innocent bystander. Clarke can’t help but smile back.

“Good aim for a toddler,” Clarke says. Octavia bounces Aurora in her arms, getting another happy shriek for the trouble.

“Takes after Raven,” Octavia says. Then she holds Aurora out to Clarke. “I have to go check traps and Raven’s working.”

Clarke takes the kid. Aurora’s grubby hand finds her hair quickly, pulling it. Octavia hands over a bag as well, which Clarke shoulders. Aurora giggles. Clarke stares down dazedly before realizing Octavia is walking away.

“You’ll be fine,” Octavia calls over her shoulder, sounding almost like the mothers that Clarke used to babysit for on the Ark. They’d always been nurses, doctors, anyone her mother knew. Clarke would babysit for free, a rarity on the Ark, so she’d done it often enough. It never was her favorite thing, but she didn’t hate it either.

Clarke sets up in the cabin. Kelly is working on pickling some of the food, a task that Clarke opted out of. Aurora’s a nice toddler, easy to entertain. Clarke hands out a few carved animals – a little wooden horse, dog, and two-headed deer. Aurora babbles to herself as she plays, occasionally telling Clarke things about what she’s doing. Clarke just sits across from the girl and watches.

It’s nearly lunchtime when someone knocks on the door. Aurora’s moved on to folding things. Clarke has to unfold each thing after Aurora is done, just so the girl can refold it. Aurora’s in the middle of folding Clarke’s hand towel, dutifully serious in the action, when Clarke moves around the kid to open the door.

Bellamy’s face is pale when she opens it. The beard is also gone, Clarke realizes with a pang.

“Have you seen Aurora?” Bellamy asks, frantic. Clarke moves away from the door and points to the girl in question.

“Be’my,” the little girl crows, forgetting the towel in favor of her uncle. Bellamy practically collapses against the doorframe.

“O usually leaves her with me when she goes out for the traps,” he explains. He lets out a breath. “Shit.”

“I – Octavia just showed up and left her,” Clarke feels oddly at fault, defensive in a way. Bellamy catches it, which doesn’t surprise her. Bellamy is many things and nearly chief among them, he’s quick. He stoops to pick up Aurora, tossing her easily in the air. The little girl shrieks, then touches Bellamy’s face in confusion.

“Miller and I shave for the first snow. It’s tradition,” Bellamy says. He’s looking at Aurora, but Clarke knows it’s for her benefit too. Bellamy sets his niece down and the little girl toddles off to play with her towels again.

“They weren’t even together when they first adopted her,” Bellamy says. He moves to sit on the chair that is technically Kelly’s. Clarke settles on her bed, close enough to the chair that her knee bumps his.

“See, they found her in the woods, and then they had her for like – god, six months? And I had to listen to O whine about how much she liked Raven, but Raven would never want her, and watch Raven look at O like a damn teenie romance vid. It was _terrible_.” Bellamy says. Clarke grins at that, can just imagine it. Bellamy points at her. “Before the kid, they were even worse. But they figured it out.”

“They seem really happy,” Clarke assesses. Bellamy nods.

“They are.” He agrees. Then, he looks down at his hands, folded with elbows resting on his knees. Too close to Clarke, and entirely too far away. “People get together in strange ways.”

He looks up then. His face – Clarke is still learning this new face, the face of Bellamy who is grown and aged and tired. She knows this look though, has imagined it a thousand times. It’s worse and better than her imagination. He swallows; she watches his Adam’s apple move with it.

“Or maybe they don’t,” she says. Bellamy’s eyes dance over her face, looking for an answer. Years of training keep her face neutral. His mouth quirks up, one side lifting in a grin. It’s a funny look, like he’s figured something out and Clarke knows she’s caught.

“Right,” he says, the word sharp as daggers. Clarke stares resolutely at the floor as he stands to go. It feels final and – it should be right.

Clarke decided a few years ago that this would be what she deserved. The things she’s done – closing the dropship door, killing Finn, letting the bomb fall on the Grounders, taking down the Mountain, leaving her people behind, everything she had to do to survive after that. They weigh on her, make her small enough that she can’t let anyone see it. If she loves someone, they’ll see it, what she really is. Lexa came close to it, before Clarke left her, and Bellamy’s always – it’s always been him, really, on the edge of knowing her too well, of seeing every last piece of her soul.

So Clarke looks up.

It was foolish of her, really, to think she could ever keep herself hidden from him for so long. It’s on his face, clear as day, that he knows.

“You should let yourself be happy,” he says, voice firm, almost scolding. Clarke burns at it a little. Bellamy scrubs a hand over his face. “Let _me_ be happy, at least. Just, don’t come back and – shit, forget it.”

He moves to go, earning a cry from Aurora. Clarke could call after him. Clarke should call after him.

He leaves.

 

Raven ends up picking up Aurora, a look on her face like she’s talked to Bellamy. Her daughter curls up in her arms, falls asleep with the ease that only children can. Clarke watches, looks at the toddler instead of Raven.

“He dated this girl for a while. She was a Grounder, moved up to Lake Irani when they broke up,” Raven says, without prompting. Clarke lets her gaze drift to the floor while Raven talks. “I – Clarke, you know we didn’t all just wait around. We didn’t stay angry. You saved us, you and Bellamy.”

“Octavia stayed mad, I guess, but even that was just – she’s protective,,” Raven keeps going. “But – you left Bellamy to die. You almost let Octavia die. You killed Finn. You _left_ and we all forgave you for that, for all of it.”

A long moment passes. Clarke looks at her friend, finally. Raven’s rubbing one hand in circles on Aurora’s back, eyes fixed on Clarke. Clarke can feel tears prick in the corners of her eyes.

“How?” She warbles around the word. “How do – I can’t _do_ it.”

Raven stands, the toddler curling an arm around her neck. When Raven settles onto the bed next to Clarke, Aurora’s foot falls into her lap.

“You let people help you.” Raven says.

Clarke cries then, loud enough to wake Aurora. The little girl pats Clarke’s cheeks with her chubby hands until Clarke smiles.

“Five years is a long time to be alone,” Clarke says, as explanation, as apology, as _something_. Raven reaches an arm around her, rubs circles into her back. She’s a mom, Clarke thinks struck by that.

“Well, you’re really dumb sometimes, Clarke,” Raven says. Clarke laughs, earns a gummy smile from Aurora and a chuckle from Raven. “You’ll figure it out though.”

 

Clarke moves into Harper’s cabin. Harper has nightmares that wake her up screaming so no one else was living with her. Harper’s legs ache when it gets icy out because someone drilled into her once. Harper gets it. It feels like home in a way Kelly’s cabin never did.

“I sing,” Harper warns, two nights after Clarke’s moved in. Clarke blinks at her in confusion. Harper shrugs. “When I’m drunk. I sing. A lot.”

Clarke considers the rest of it, considers the look on Harper’s face. She’s giving Clarke one last out.

“I cry when I’m drunk,” she admits. It’s more than she’s admitted to anyone besides Raven in a long time. Harper grins, shrugs like it doesn’t matter.

“I can handle it.” She tells Clarke. Clarke smiles back.

 

Clarke takes to running in the mornings. The dog joins her sometimes, barking when she goes outside of the camp boundaries. Mliler waves at her as she passes. So do the other guards eventually.

 

“I dated Lexa for a while,” Clarke tells Octavia one night as they work in the infirmary. Clarke’s started helping out there. It feels nice, to help again. It’s like returning to something much bigger than just a job. Like a piece of herself has come back to her.

“Lincoln told me,” Octavia says as she sorts through some herbs. “What happened?”

Clarke considers it. There’s two stories, at least on her side. The story she usually tells is simple enough – Lexa wanted to live in TonDC, Clarke wanted to travel, it was an easy split. There’s another story.

“She needed me to be a Grounder. I couldn’t be that.” Clarke says. There’s more. There’s a whole mess with it – of Clarke not knowing what she was, of Lexa calling her _wanheda_ with reverence and Clarke hating it but needing that, of Lexa never giving all of herself to Clarke, of Clarke doing the same to her. It all spills out of her then and somehow she finds herself near tears again. It seems that she’s now trying to make up for not crying for so long.

Octavia doesn’t hug her, doesn’t comfort her. Just listens. It’s enough.

Clarke finishes, wipes her face on her shirt. Octavia waits a long moment.

“So, Lincoln wanted me to have a baby. It wasn’t like – he wasn’t pushy about it. But, I just didn’t want that. I thought I would never want it, so I let him go.” Octavia smashes a nut with her knife as she talks. She smirks, looks up at Clarke. “And here I am now.”

“Does he – do you still talk to him?” Clarke asks. Octavia shakes her head, expression something Clarke can’t quite place. Sad, but something more complicated than that. Clarke considers, then decides. “He’s married. Wife was pregnant last I knew, must’ve had the kid by now.”

Octavia smiles at that, nods.

“Bellamy wants kids,” she says. It could be nothing, coming from anyone else. But it’s Octavia and she’s got that look on her face. Clarke nods.

“I’d want kids,” she says. She considers saying the rest of it, the ‘with Bellamy’. It’s too much though, so she holds her tongue. Octavia still smirks, eyes sharp like she caught the rest of it anyways.

“Weird thing,” Octavia says. “Y’know how everyone called Finn Spacewalker? It was Raven. Raven was the one who did the spacewalk.”

Clarke’s surprised by that.

“Do you remember when we first landed, and I was such a flirt with Finn?” Octavia asks. Clarke nods, the memory hazy but there. “I told Bellamy I was going to marry the Spacewalker.”

Octavia cracks another nut under her knife, smirks when Clarke laughs. That night, Clarke hums the whole way back to her cabin.

 

Clarke goes to the fishing pond. It’s nearly a mile from camp, very much frozen over, and also Jasper’s favorite spot. She finds him there and he jolts at seeing her.

“I never apologized.” She starts. Jasper stands, hands stuffed in his jacket. He looks almost skittish. Clarke stays where she is, beyond arm’s reach. “Everything that happened, to Maya – I’m sorry. She deserved so much more.”

Jasper looks at her. He looks better than she remembered him, face filled out some, hair less choppy, all around less like the awkward boy she knew.

“I can’t say – look, if you came here to be friends, I don’t think I can do that,” he says. Clarke nods. “But I understand. I don’t – I’m not – it’s not something I can let go of, but it’s not something I hold against you. You get it.”

Clarke does get it. She nods. Jasper holds out a hand for her to shake. She shakes it. Then, she starts to turn around. Shaking her head, she turns back to Jasper.

“Forgive Monty.” She says. He startles at that, eyebrows close to his hair at it. “If you can stop holding it against me, you can forgive Monty.”

Jasper considers it, shrugs. “I forgive him. I just don’t want to be his friend anymore.”

“Jasper, I’ve been away for a long time. I was alone a lot. It sucks. If you have a friend, don’t waste it,” Clarke says. Jasper bites his lip, turns away from her. When he looks back, he’s nearly smiling.

“There’s the Clarke I knew,” he says. He doesn’t agree to talk to Monty, doesn’t say anything else. Clarke knows somehow, this is all she’s getting. So she leaves, treks that half-mile back to camp.

It’s nearly a week later, but she sees him again – sitting at the same table as Monty. It feels big, maybe more than it should, but Clarke grins the rest of her meal regardless.

 

The next time she sees Bellamy, he’s got Aurora on his shoulders and his head is tilted up, looking at her. It warms Clarke to her very core, makes her want things she’s never let herself consider before.

 

Time goes by faster than it ever had when she was on her own. Monty and Miller decide to get the marriage tattoos. Octavia gleefully volunteers to do it. The beauty of the tattoos is that even though they are permanent, they’re meant to have additions. If someone remarries, if someone dies, whatever, there are ways to commemorate it. Raven and Octavia add something to their tattoos for Aurora’s birthday. Harper dates a man named Arnie, then breaks up with him, then dates him, then he breaks up with her – the whole ordeal accompanied with alcohol, the singing she warned Clarke against, and Monroe patiently helping her through hangovers. Clarke watches it all play out, can’t help but be amused.

Bellamy avoids her, or she avoids him. She keeps waiting for him to move on, to start dating someone else. When she mentions this to Raven, Raven gives her a look, then tells her she should know better. Clarke thinks maybe he should know better too.

 

Spring comes slowly. Clarke has some time to decide if she wants to return to the fields, or keep working in the medical unit. She’s out running one evening when someone else falls into pace with her. When she looks over her shoulder, she finds Bellamy. Maybe it should surprise her, but somehow it doesn’t. The beard he’s grown surprises her more than anything. They run a longer route than usual, the dog nipping at their heels the whole way. Eventually, she nearly collapses at a tree, gasping for air. He pulls to a stop too, leans back and laughs shakily.

“I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up and you’ll be gone.” He says. She looks up at him, hands on her knees. Then he flops onto the ground, sitting with his legs spread in front of him. His face is too honest, all the heartbreak that was there five years ago still clear. “Don’t leave.”

“I don’t have anywhere else,” she says. She means she doesn’t have anyone else. He knows, she hopes.

Clarke sits next to him, can hear her heartbeat, proud and strong.

“I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up and you’ll be dead,” she says. Bellamy tilts his head, looks at her without really looking over.

“World’s not going to take me that easy,” he says finally. Clarke laughs at that. She laughs, and laughs, and somehow she starts to cry.

Bellamy pulls her into his lap, and the dog noses at her cheek. The dog whines in concern and Clarke laughs, the sound thick with tears still. She can feel Bellamy laugh too, his arm reaching around her to push the dog away. The dog settles on the grass less than a foot away, eyes steady on them both.

“How much did it mess you up?” Clarke asks. She peers up at Bellamy. He nods.

“I still can’t sleep a whole night,” Bellamy says. “Some days, I barely get out of bed.”

“We’re myths,” Clarke whispers. She realizes, when Bellamy looks down at her, both how close they are and that she is in his lap. Moving feels like some sort of declaration, so she stays. “The Grounders, all of them have heard about it. We’re going to be written into their history as heroes. It’s fucked up.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to write yourself as your own villain,” Bellamy points out. He leans back on his hands, juts his chin at the dog, who rolls onto his back. “Always wanted to be a hero. Even if they have the worst things, they get the best too.”

The silence then feels comfortable. Clarke leans her head on his shoulder, watches as the dog hops up to chase a bug. Bellamy laughs when the dog snaps at a lightning bug and misses, the sound of the laugh reverberating through Clarke wonderfully.

“Who’s your favorite hero?” Clarke asks.

“Perseus,” Bellamy answers without hesitation.

When Clarke tells him she doesn’t know the story, Bellamy looks astounded. He tells her of a monster who turns people to stone, of girls and rocks and mothers, of a man with a good heart and a missing father. Clarke falls asleep to a story that is not their own, but still a story that feels like history repeating.

In the morning, Harper smirks at her when Clarke wakes up in her own bed, clearly brought by Bellamy. He must’ve carried her all that way. Clarke knows she shouldn’t blush, that nothing happened, but her cheeks burn red anyway.

 

It gets easier. Bellamy joins her on runs most days, Cerberus too sometimes. Octavia and Raven eat dinner with her often, and Harper the rest of the time. She sees Jasper talking to Monty occasionally. Things are good. Things are fine. It’s just – she missed it. Her chance with Bellamy, she let it slip through her fingers. She looks at him sometimes, when they’re finishing their run. She loves him. It’s that simple and that complicated.

Clarke wonders if she’ll ever get to keep someone she loves. She wonders it all the time, wonders if she can trick the world by keeping this love to herself, if that’s what she has to do to keep him. If it is, she can do it.

 

Bellamy talks with his hands. It’s distracting, more than Clarke had anticipated. They’re nice hands, is all.

Clarke’s supposed to be stitching up his arm – he caught it on something out on a hunt. But Bellamy keeps trying to tell her about the horse they almost caught and so – well, stitches can wait, really.

He stops explaining suddenly and he just looks at her. Clarke feels caught. Blushing, she quickly stitches up the arm. Bellamy stays quiet, which is almost frightening.

“Clarke,” he says when she finishes. Clarke runs her thumb over his arm, just below the stitches.

“I can’t be – I’ve never been good at this,” she admits. She can’t look at him. Bellamy chuckles, the sound low.

“Princess, that makes two of us.” He says. He’s wrong, she thinks, he must be good at it. It’s a belief she has with no real proof, but it’s one that she thinks can hold up.

She looks up at him, realizing something. “I thought you weren’t going to call me princess.”

He shrugs, expression too pleased. “Gotta call you something.”

It feels like coming home, hearing that.

Clarke leans to him. She finds his lips with her own and he tastes like the berries he loves, like the whiskey they drink on hunts, he tastes like _Bellamy_. When she pulls away, his eyes stay shut a moment longer. She knows why, somehow. Things like this, they seem like something that will break with a wrong move.

“No one’s going to let us mess this up.” She says, only half-teasing. Bellamy laughs, opens his eyes. He reaches up, cups her face.

“I was waiting for you. Is that bad?” He says, voice rough. Clarke shakes her head.

“You were waiting for me while I was out looking for you. Neither of us knew it then though,” she says. He nods at that.

He kisses her then again, slow and easy, like they have all the time in the world. Clarke thinks maybe they do. After all, she’s not going anywhere.

 

 

 

Things are good after that. They’re different, but they’re good. One thing stays the same. Bellamy keeps the beard.


End file.
